I nodded. Looked back to the trees, trying to imagine what my vocation would be. “I used to think I wanted to be a marine biologist,” I said. “I like tide pools and the ocean, but that’s a lot of science.”
“Mmm.”
“And then I thought it might be that I wanted to be an architect, because houses are so cool.”
“They are,” he agreed.
“I’m drawing a comic book in art class,” I told him. “Maybe I could be an artist?”
“That’s not surprising. You are so good at drawing and painting.”
I tried to imagine what it would be like to spend my days in a studio, painting all the time. “Maybe a comic book writer,” I added.
“Cool.”
This was what I loved about my dad. My mother would start arguing for architecture, for being sensible, even though it was years and years until I had to decide. My dad let me be . . . me.
As we descended from the mountains, following switchbacks through the forest, my heart felt as light as it ever did. I could breathe. “I hate my school,” I said.
“I’ve been kind of getting that.” He paused, looking in the rearview mirror, then at me. “Do you think it’s the school or the stage of your life you’re in? Junior high is always pretty cutthroat.”
“No one likes me.”
“I don’t believe that’s true at all. Why do you think that, sweetheart?”
“Because I don’t have any friends?” I retorted. “They think I’m weird. The only class I like is art.” I glowered. “I wish I could come here and go to school.”
“Mmm. Well, maybe that’s not the best idea, either. What if we found some art classes after school or something? Maybe that would be a good carrot. Cuz you have to go to school, and you have to do well. Otherwise—”
“I’m cutting off my nose to spite my face,” I finished.
“Right.”
We arrived as the skies opened up and poured down rain. We had to dash into Amma’s house, dripping all over the floor. Just the smell of the house made me feel better. My dad and his mom chatted about Thanksgiving Day and the plan for him and my mom to come back, and I tolerated it, wanting to get out of there and over to Suze, the one friend in my world who really got me. “Can I go now?” I said finally.
“Give me a hug,” Dad said, and pulled back to hold my arms in an earnest way. “Think about what you want, honey.”
I nodded. Kissed Amma and bolted out the door.
Suze
Phoebe ran all the way to our house in the rain, a big black umbrella over her head. She shook it off on the porch, so she didn’t see me at first. It gave me a chance to fill myself up with her actual presence. Her dark, curly hair, her skinny arms. Her sweater was soft pink, something I wanted to touch. She was the first friend who really saw me, saw past the clothes and the hair, and liked me for me. She listened to me in a way that made me feel heard.
I was watching her shake off the rain, and smooth her curly hair, and then turn toward the door, where I was waiting. When she saw me, she gave a little screech. I laughed and pushed open the screen door. We hugged. Hugged hard. I smelled Herbal Essence shampoo, and the sweater was soft as could be. She pulled back and looked at my chest. “Are you wearing a bra?”
I grinned and pulled my shoulders back. “Yes!” I glanced over my shoulder to be sure my dad was nowhere in sight. “My dad is writing his sermon. Let’s go.” I grabbed her hand and pulled her upstairs. In my bedroom, I closed the door and unbuttoned my shirt and showed off the white bra Grandma had taken me to buy. “Now you’re not the only one.”
“They’re getting big fast!” She looked down at her own chest. Beneath the pink sweater, small breasts pushed up, but she honestly didn’t even really need a bra yet.
“Can I try on the sweater?” I said, and felt stupid. “I mean, you don’t have to let me.”
“No, it’s okay.” She peeled it off, revealing her ribs and Young Miss bra. “It’s cashmere.”
“It’s so soft,” I cried, pulling it over my head. The fabric brushed my skin like breath.
She eyed me. “That looks way better on you than it does on me. I would send it to you, but my mom would kill me.”
“No, that’s why I brought you up here. I have to show you something!”
I gave her back the sweater and, moving a chair against the door, opened my closet. From a box in the back, I took out a peasant blouse made of lightweight cotton, the fabric printed with paisleys. I’d laced the sleeves and neckline with red velvet ribbon, and it was beautiful. I pulled it on over my head. “I have really learned a lot about sewing.”